Walk around the World
by Sand Cursive
Summary: Wally likes to go for a run sometimes, just to clear his head. Companion piece to Mood of the Sun - it should clear things up a bit.


A blur of bright yellow and orange and red is raging down the dusty ribbon, burning brief and intense.

He's moving so fast, it's almost as though his feet are making no sound at all as they batter the weathered road. He's on an open stretch of dirt, trailing billowing capes of golden dust behind him as he goes. It's enough to make him want to move in what to the casual observer would be a completely erratic pattern; see if he can spell his name with the flying particulate. He can feel the wind slicing through his hair though, and he knows if he changes speeds that quickly, the force will grab mercilessly onto the hair dragging through the air, ripping his scalp clean off his head.

He always runs. When he needs to think and clear his head, when he has a problem, when he wants to. It's always been his answer – even before the stupid explosion. (Not stupid, _never _stupid. He gets to do what he's always wanted to do because of it. He's carving his legacy, he's making his name. It defines him). The only difference is that now, he moves faster – can go farther. To places where nothing can bother him, distract him, confuse him or colour his judgement. It's the truest freedom.

But is it really? Even still, he's bound to the ground. To gravity. Not necessarily as much as his ninja best friend or their aquatic leader (much, much less than him in fact), but enough. He's never really thought about it, what a big difference it makes – their interaction with this fundamental force. He can lighten it with his movement, his _powers_, but without them, he's far too human. His manoeuvres are less graceful, less practiced, less well executed. Hell, even stopping or avoiding minute obstacles tends to be a problem when he's going at speeds well beyond the capabilities of any vehicle.

He's starting to slow down. This line of thought is a little bit depressing; maddening in the reminder that he still has so far to go. Both as a hero and . . . well the base is somewhere between seven and twelve states behind him. He speeds up. _Damn. _He's been thinking too hard, he's too distracted. He can't even run properly. (Not that he _needs_ to run right now. Not that the distance he's created is so precious and large and still not large enough. Not that he's running away. Heroes don't run away. Not from anything).

He starts decelerating when he sees the barest glint of rusted metal in the far, far distance, spinning to the side and using the edges of his boots to attempt to fabricate friction on this nearly frictionless road. He skids to a stop in two, three blinks of an eye, some five miles away from where he started. Straightening, the sun bears down on him, and it's the first time he notices the discomfort of the heat on his scalp. The blinding flash of light makes him nearly unable to read the sign, but when he squints; the base is only six states away. He's losing his mind.

He starts up again, running back towards where he's sure he noticed some dying stalks of wheat. It takes him less than a second, and soon he's running in circles and zigzags through the field, re-tracing his steps and flattening down the withered husks. The smell of the drying plants, of the earthy ground rising in a smell so dry and autumnal, makes him a little nostalgic. He used to do this when he was younger – make crop circles in the fields. He'd taken a splintery old shovel and used it to pat down the plants, bending them at the base to make it go faster, to secure the position. He would spend hours doing it, feeling the hefty weight of the metal and wood in his palms, ignoring the irritation and occasional jab of pain as splinters broke off in his skin. Diligent, as a kid.

It goes faster now that he can just mow them down, but he hasn't done it since he'd been sequestered in the hospital. He doesn't think about (_tries_ not to) what this means – that he's doing this now. Just enjoys the flicker of a distraction that mapping out the design provides. Considers the intricate patterns he wants, the overall picture, the final effect. And when he stops, just in the centre, to revel in the pride of having completed it, of having made something interesting and different and exciting (no matter how misleading) he can't shut down his mind any more.

* * *

><p>The commons room was almost never empty. Not unless there was a scheduled training session, or a mission, or the Mountain's two residents were attending school. So when he walked in, he wasn't surprised to see that it was full. It was rare though, that the entire group (minus two) congregated on a couch that was really only designed to seat three far less muscular individuals, and that they were clearly making room for one more.<p>

He walked cautiously over when the small hand beckoned, and squeezed himself unceremoniously between green and dark brown skin. The couch sank uncomfortably beneath him, and he felt himself being compressed between the two, the heat too slight for him to notice. The smell of old leather and chlorine and flour mingled together, pleasant but not quite strong enough for him to escape the feeling that he was going to be crushed, that he was being pushed back and back into the fabric of the couch and that he'd be stuck there. But it was illogical and stupid and quite impossible in this situation, so he turned his attention to the small brunette who'd waved him over and arched a curious brow.

He only shook his head.

* * *

><p>Gravity isn't the only thing that constricts his movement, limits his ability. He's tied down to other things too. His thoughts circle back to the reason he'd wanted to move in the first place, the reason he'd had to feel the wind and the sun and the freedom of wide country roads.<p>

Secrets. People are entitled to secrets, he thinks, and he can understand why they would want them. The things they don't want other people to know, the things that are theirs and special and private, the things they fear and love and need. The things they can't separate themselves from. He has some secrets himself. When he thinks about them, puts them in perspective with the things he knows the others are dealing with, with the things that he _doesn't _know that they worry about, that they conceal, they seem so petty and trivial and superficial that he's almost ashamed he has them at all. But it's all the more reason not to voice them. No, the concept of secrets, _that _is crystal clear in his mind.

Keeping them, well, that's what makes them secrets. He knows that, he _knows_ that. That's part of the definition of a secret, isn't it? **Se****·****cret (noun) – Information not widely known. **_A piece of information that is known only to a few people and is intentionally withheld from general knowledge._ (Not that he can be one hundred percent sure; he doesn't share Robin's affinity for language). So why does it still bother him, why can't he let it go?

Because it shouldn't have been a secret in the first place! It should have been on the table, all the cards, so people could understand. So they could judge and make informed decisions. How did hiding this help? How did concealing something so vital and basic build bonds, create harmony, when it meant that they were building on a lie?

But it wasn't a lie. If he wants to get technical about it (and damn it, he always does), then it was just the withholding of information.

Because other people _can_ know it. Because even though a secret is so fundamentally private and zealously guarded, it can be shared. When trust and reliance and rapport are built, high and large and powerful enough that even the telling of the secret can't destroy it, can only strengthen it. This is what bothers him. That he couldn't be trusted. That he wasn't reliable.

But wasn't he? His best friend - young, agile, amazing - had shared his secret with him, had trusted him enough that he had let him see something that no one else could. He hadn't said a word – hadn't betrayed that confidence. And it wasn't as if he was stupid and egotistical and self-important enough to think that he was just _entitled_ to know. That people should trust him and rely on him and divulge all their secrets because it was him, and he was good, and he deserved it. And _God, _he remembers the way he'd acted – in the beginning. Hostile and jealous and misguidedly loyal to the redhead who had walked away. But he knew enough to judge based on the results rather than the hypothesis. He'd amended his view, changed his behaviour (even if the change was reluctant and slow because the stupid, hot-headed free-lance archer was still his friend), but he'd done it. Was still doing it.

And after that run – cradling the lithe form of someone who'd woken up with him in a dark shack and more or less read out his death sentence – gold flying in beams of light around her head and her beats accelerating almost faster than his steps. The way the deep, liquid silver swam with excitement and breathless anticipation.

He breathes deeply, and the air is so much fuller and fresher and flavourful when he's still. He normally doesn't notice the difference, doesn't care, but he concentrates on the feeling of the cool air filling his lungs, almost icy in contrast with his abnormally high body heat.

* * *

><p>She walked into the room like she hadn't been invited – like this was some private party she was crashing. Like she was intruding. That was the first thing he noticed. Because everywhere she went, she walked like she owned the ground beneath her feet and the sky above her head. Like it was her right.<p>

And this was just unnerving.

She'd faced them, quiet, patient, _hesitant. _And she studiously avoided his gaze. And then she'd told them, head up, back straight, staring boldly at the wall behind their heads. And when she was done, watched the expressions play across their faces (except his, but it's not like he noticed. It's not like he was bitter. It's not like he cared). Stood silent and resilient against the onslaught of verbal abuse from the clone who had at some point made his way to the armchair in the corner. Proud. Defiant. And staring, rigid and reliantly at two reflective pieces of black plastic. Anchoring her gaze to a face that wasn't his.

He knew why she was looking so resolutely at the acrobat. Because he'd known. _Of course _he'd known! But to exclude him in so far as to make him insignificant? Not even a glance. She'd passed right over him, looked right through him. Like he hadn't mattered at all. Like he was only here because he'd passed by. An afterthought.

He was trembling with so many powerful emotions he was beginning to sink into the couch. And not like he'd thought he would, initially - simply being sucked into the fabric of the couch, squished, compressed. He was vibrating so powerfully and violently that he was literally passing right through it. He would have gone right through the floor if he hadn't suddenly pushed up, standing, quietly trembling, in front of the creased leather cushions. Half of the people in the room turned to him, astonished. One who didn't was still occupied with the long string of profanities spewing from his mouth. The other hadn't even noticed.

Suddenly, the vengeful buzzing in his mind widened to a roar, and he clenched his fists to control himself. He walked, purposefully, cautiously, to the door, breathing hard. He wanted so badly to turn around, to check, to see if his presence or lack thereof had registered at _all_, but experimental precedence indicated otherwise. So instead, he kept walking. All the way to the zeta tubes at the end of the hall, his footsteps slow and hollow.

* * *

><p>If that was the way things stood, then fine. He wasn't going to obsess over the diligent way she continued to avoid him. (He <em>certainly<em> hadn't been watching her when he tripped over that stone in Belgrave). He wasn't going to make a point of excluding her in all his witty conversations, or moving past her like she was invisible, or cutting in front of her resentfully when they were boarding the Bioship. Because he was better than that.

Except, (and it caused him some physical pain to admit this – gut-twisting, heart-stopping, throat-clenching physical pain), except maybe he wasn't. Because yesterday, on their stupid recon not-ever-an-actual-recon mission, the large husky blonde in the stupid goalie mask (who the hell did he think he was? Freddy? Or was it Jason?), had put in an unexpected appearance. And he had been so surprised and caught off guard and god, he hadn't _meant _to. But he'd made the mistake of glancing at her, all tense shoulders and snarling lip and unwavering aim. And she noticed.

And her eyes had gone wide at the accusation on his face (the _unintentional_ accusation), and she had missed. She had _missed!_ And if the telepath hadn't noticed, if she had been too slow, the hatchet the man had whipped at her would have pierced her in the chest. And _he_ hadn't moved. He had been so close, and so _fast_, and he had _known_ what was going to happen. And he hadn't moved. Her eyes were downcast, and she turned away.

Afterwards the rest of the team had chewed her out. Why didn't she take the shot? Had she missed on purpose? She could have been killed! And she'd hid her face behind her hands, and she'd shook her head and apologized, apologized, apologized. And they'd quieted, sobered, because in the end, they knew where her loyalties lay. And the sweet Martian girl had taken her, shaking and ashamed, to the kitchen for some tea and quiet company.

But it was wrong. Because he knew it had been his fault. He _knew._ And she hadn't said a word – worse, she had apologized! _Wrong, wrong, wrong._ And he'd stayed awake all night, twisting, turning, feeling suffocated and confined in his room. When the first rays of the sun poured over the edges of his window sill, he was already gone.

* * *

><p>He's walking the perimeter of his crop art. He can't call it a circle, not really, because it's more of a square with a triangle peeking over the top, the apex pointing back down the road in the direction from which he came. The sun is blinding now, and he's lost track of time. How late is it here? There?<p>

It haunts him, the look on her face. It wasn't judgement or apathy or disdain. It was fear.

The moment she had looked up, had seen him looking at her, angry and upset that she had never thought him worthy, never seen him as he had seen her, she had looked scared. Broken. Like all of her fears had come true. Not that he thought she was going to run to her father, take her place beside him. But that she had broken his trust, that he thought _she_ was unworthy. Because she **did** care. Does care. Because his opinion of her is _important_. It _matters._

And he sits at the top of the triangle and drops his head in his hands. He would have killed her. He hadn't taken any shots, but he would have let her die. The thought sits so heavily and oppressively on his mind that he's afraid it will shoot his brain right through his body, all the way to the molten centre of the earth. His fingers pick fretfully at the edges of the cowl he doesn't deserve to wear. He's disgusted with himself.

The worst part is, he doesn't know what to do now. The answer should be obvious – run to the team and demand that he be taken off, because he _is _unworthy, because he _doesn't _deserve this. (And the thought tears his heart, destroys him, because he's never wanted something so much in his life). And to an even larger, more urgent extent – seek her out, apologize. But he's still hurt and upset and he thinks maybe he doesn't want to. He would kick himself if he could. More than her father, he hates himself right now. But really, he's afraid.

He dusts himself off and flashes back to the road. While he's still wearing this, while he still has this symbol on his chest, he's a hero. And heroes don't run from anything. So he's going to try.

The wind is welcoming in its loud intensity. It dulls the worry in his chest, and he thinks, _the world blurs by in such beautiful colours sometimes_. Right now, as he begins to pass the cornfields, they run into blends of browns and yellows and greens. And he runs even faster.

It's a fear that he's acquired through extensive partnership with the Flash. No matter how fast you are, you can always be too late. But he moves forwards anyway, and it's early yet. It's nearly an hour before dinner and the mountain is already coming into view and hope and nerves bloom in his chest. He can make it.

He's so focused, he doesn't notice the motorcycle roaring by him on the road.


End file.
